


Ancient Spells

by alena_hu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alena_hu/pseuds/alena_hu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape finds his martyr complex thwarted. Worse, he has no idea how it happened. Searching his memories, he struggles to make sense of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ancient Spells

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in October 2007 for Livejournal's snape_afte_dh challenge. The prompt was "remorse at the moment of death (as Albus said) might change the results".
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter world, and no money is being made by this work.

_A rush of footsteps, and the doors flew open with a crash. Severus at last. Relief and pain flooded together: with a grimace he slumped back once more against the wall. Snape's glance swept swift and desperate across the room, taking in the four Death Eaters, the boy sick with terror, the old man's own ashen face and empty hands. Calculating the odds. Harry he could not see._

No. Remember your promise.

 _The young man's eyes drilled into his. But it was not up to him now. The board was set, the Plan already in motion. He must not fail now._

 _An adjustment of the Plan, even at this last moment. Yes. Yes, it still held. With his last remaining power, Dumbledore pushed the full Plan behind the walls of his mind, walls formed of silent thoughts._

Draco. Protect Draco at all costs. Distract attention from him if necessary.

 _He did not understand. But he would remember._

 _"Severus..."_

Remember our plan. It is time. Now!

  


***

  


Needles kept jabbing and twisting through his eyelids. Strange noises echoed, shrill against his ears at first, a second later already miles away. Voices. Maybe. He could not make out a single word.

He could not find Lily...

A terrible weight dragged upon his limbs, pushing him down into the ground, except it was no longer the ground, not quite. A dim fire. Like great muscular coils. Dust filled the air, choking the breath from his lungs. Not dust. The Shack was not so bright--

The Shrieking Shack. Nagini.

Shite.

A gurgling sound, meant to be an imprecation, erupted from his damaged throat, and he pushed himself up wildly onto his elbows. Up. He had to get up. He had to get to Potter. A crash. The dull flames flared into a conflagration.

 _Cruciatus._ They'd found him out. They'd triumphed. That imbecile boy had truly fucked up everything beyond his worst nightmares--

Hands gripping his shoulders, pushing him back. His eyes flew open, but instantaneously the needles multiplied a thousandfold, forcing them tightly shut again. Faces he did not know if he recognized. Voldemort. All the others. Potter had failed. He was bloody blind.

"Potter." His teeth clenched and could not unclench. "Damn you, you cowardly little--"

"Severus--"

"Professor Snape? Sir?"

"Calm down, Severus, you need to calm down. Can you hear me?"

They must have hit him with a hex. He sank back.

The next hours or days or weeks passed in a feverish fog. At times he was floating, which made sense, as he was dead. At times he was heavy as a rock at the bottom of the sea. Which didn't. He tried to find Lily but could not, which frightened him and did not make sense, either. The pain flowed and ebbed. Which meant he must be in some sort of hell. That would explain why he couldn't find her. Of course.

"It's all right, Severus. It's all right now. We've won. Harry has won..."

"A real miracle..."

"Try to swallow the potion, Severus..."

He searched and searched, but she was not there. Hers was never among the voices. Or he'd forgotten what her voice sounded like.

"Um, Professor Snape. I don't know if you can hear this, or, well, if you want to. What with the business about...about my mum and all. But I, er, I wanted to say thank you. For being on our side and everything."

Eventually he opened his eyes again. Walls. Ceiling. Windows. His own fingers clutching the white infirmary bedsheet. Poppy Pomfrey's face swimming into view, every kind of uncertainty in her gaze.

The fear built slowly, quietly, nothing like the blistering panic of the first moments, instead taking shape from evidence and rational deductions, turning from suspicion to certainty. It chilled him to the bones.

He was alive.

  


***

  


Behind the half-moon spectacles, the twinkle had returned. In the Patronus's fading light, that well-practiced glimmer could almost be mistaken for tears.

"Those whom you could not save, did you say, Severus?"

Snape stiffened, but Dumbledore held up a hand.

"Do you not think the same goes for me also? Do you not think that I have looked for another way? Out of all people, I think you understand sacrifice--"

"For the greater good, you mean?" He did not bother to conceal his bitterness.

"For Lily." Dumbledore's reply was curiously gentle. "Do not blame me for using you, Severus. Or for using Harry..."

  


***

  


Poppy fretted and fussed over him. Under different circumstances he would have found it amusing, in an ironic way. She could hardly suppress the awe and curiosity in her face and voice. Under different circumstances he would have found it irritating. But as things were, he simply did not have the energy.

A powerful antivenin you must have brewed, Severus. No? Bezoar, then? Blood Replenishing Potion? Draught of Living Death? Stasis spell?

A snort of contempt that turned to coughs. Ridiculous notions. Merely thinking about them would have compromised the Plan, but there was no point in explanations. The word 'miracle' was flung about in his hearing. He had the vague idea he was supposed to see something ironic in that, too.

He should be assessing the situation, getting it under control, finding strategies to minimize the damage, instead he laid back and studied the ceiling as they read the list of the dead to him. The sound of the names swirled past his head like currents of water, not quite making sense, but then again, many things didn't, these days. The fact that his own name had been on the list, then struck off. The fact that apparently he was being counted among the victors. The fact the Lily no longer showed up in his dreams, not even to berate him and call him names. Not even her body lying broken amid the wreckage.

The fact that her son persisted in finding excuses to stop by the infirmary, poking his head in where it was unwanted, yet never stepping fully into the room.

"Professor Snape, I...Actually I was just looking for Madam Pomfrey. Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you. Bye."

"Mr Potter." A thought was nagging at the back of his mind.

In the doorway, the boy gulped like a first year Longbottom. One would have imagined Voldemort's vanquisher to possess greater courage.

"Dumbledore's wand. What did you do with it?"

An unexpected question, apparently, and Potter's brows furrowed, a touch of the old distrust seeping back into his expression. The familiarity was curiously comforting.

"I returned it. To where it belongs." The answer came in a quiet, clear voice, almost obstinate. The corner of Snape's mouth curled. Muscle memory.

"Good," he muttered. "You understand the implications, I trust?"

Potter nodded nervously, eyes widening for only an instant.

"Erm. Yeah," he mumbled, then quickly turned away.

  


***

  


The crisp late autumn sunset spilled in from the windows, gilding everything within the headmaster's office. With long, taut strides, he paced back and forth across the room, wearing trails in the thick carpet. From the wall, Dumbledore's portrait watched him calmly with folded arms.

"Were you ever planning on telling me?"

"There was no need," the portrait replied smoothly. "I did not want you to--"

"You did not want me to figure it out, Dumbledore?" He stopped dead in his tracks, whipping around and matching the painted twinkle with a glare. "Except it is hardly difficult, is it? Given his obsession with Gregorovitch, and his recent visit to the continent--"

"I was about to say I did not want you to be worried, my boy."

A pause. Then Snape heard himself laugh, a dry mirthless sound unpleasantly reminiscent of _him_.

"Of course. You would not want the pawn to worry as it is pushed into position for sacrifice, as it will happen regardless." His lips twisted into a faint smile. "So. Shall I give him a nudge? Drop a hint or two as to the current location of the Elder Wand?"

"I hardly think that will be necessary." The portrait shook his head. "He will get there soon, from what you tell me."

"And then." A spark of admiration for the old man was rising through his annoyance. Dumbledore's gambit was an audacious one indeed, worthy of a chess master. "As the one who killed you--"

"Killed, but not defeated. That makes all the difference."

"A difference the Dark Lord certainly will not appreciate."

"A difference he will not know." A sudden urgency in the other's voice. "Listen to me, Severus. He will take possession of the Wand, yes, but it is imperative that he does not become its master. And you cannot go back to where things were before. Remember what you have promised. He would kill you--"

"Thanks to your machinations. No need to spell it out, Dumbledore, I am not one of your Gryffindor dunderheads!"

No immediate reply. Man and portrait faced each other for a long silent moment, then Snape sighed, dropping into the headmaster's chair behind the desk. He swivelled it around to face the other.

"Better hope he does not question any of the four others about the exact sequence of events that night on the Tower, then," he drawled.

  


***

  


This was never part of the Plan.

Snape recalled being quite struck by the idea's elegance and symmetry, with his own death at the pivot, the daring unexpectedness, the deep inner ferocity worthy of a Slytherin ideal. They Sort too early indeed, old man, he had laughed when he'd first seen the Plan in its poetic entirety. But now...

He had carried out the Plan and accomplished its goal, if barely, yet aesthetically he could not but be deeply dissatisfied. Worse, he still could not isolate the unknown factor that had negated the pivot, hence ruining everything, even after having eliminated all impossibilities and exhausted all improbabilities. There were plenty of hours to think, but his brain felt sluggish. Difficult to rouse.

There were the usual arguments with Pomfrey, more out of old habit than anything else. You should be in bed, Severus. I'm just fine. My legs are just fine, last time I checked. I need to get out of this place, woman. Too many blasted visitors.

Longbottom, of all people, with real emotion in his voice, some twaddle about how amazed he had been when he'd felt a pulse, kneeling over the body on the Shack's dusty floor. Weak, but definitely there, even though you'd think there was no blood left...The indignity would have turned him livid in better--or worse, he was no longer sure--times. Shacklebolt, who eyed him warily and gripped the wand inside his sleeve the whole time, but Harry had been very clear and certain that night in the Great Hall, and they needed the spy's testimony in the upcoming trials. That bizarre Lovegood chit, blathering on about what a charming time they had in the Forest with Hagrid.

And there was Potter, needless to say.

"Professor Snape? I just wanted to, actually, it's Professor McGonagall, her being acting headmistress and all, she suggested that with the ways things turned out, erm..."

"Spit it out, Potter." The words did not sound nearly as snide as he would have liked, but given his state, it would have to do.

"Well, there was the Pensieve in the headmaster's office--" The saviour of Wizarding Britain shuffled uncomfortably, then gathered his courage in his hands.

"I think...I think these are yours."

With a rapidness born of embarrassment, he drew something out from behind his back and placed it on the table. A sealed glass jar, filled to the brim with silvery, translucent mist.

Snape's gaze went from the object to the boy's face. Then he sucked in a sharp breath and reached for his wand. Aiming it squarely at the other's chest did not make him feel any less vulnerable.

"Professor Snape--"

Potter blinked at him. That had better not be pity in those eyes. A shallow, self-righteous youth--

Who had gone through with it in the end.

"Sir, I...I just wanted to tell you--"

"You've told quite enough," he snarled.

Whatever it was, perhaps pity, perhaps not, faded from Potter's eyes, replaced by something much more familiar. _Greasy Git_ , he could all but hear. That was right. Snape watched James's son back away. He did not lower the wand until the other had disappeared through the door.

The jar sat on the table, the milky strands swirling endlessly within. For a long while, he stood staring at it, but from a safe distance, as if it were a ticking bomb.

  


***

  


"Protect Draco at all costs," continued Snape coldly. "Distract attention from him if necessary. By 'attention', you meant killing curse, I understand?"

"Severus." The sparkle had vanished from the portrait's eyes, and Dumbledore leaned forward, brows knitted, as if trying to reach out from the frame. "He must not gain mastery of the Elder Wand. You know how important this is. And I need not remind you of your Unbreakable Vow to protect--"

"Yes, yes. Certainly. You have retained your penchant for keeping others in the dark and playing them for fools, I see," he sneered. "It's just the same with that boy, isn't it?"

"I am sorry, Severus."

"No you aren't." Snape waved a dismissive hand.

"You know what they say about the best-laid strategies," said Dumbledore's portrait softly. "That they always go astray..."

"As soon as the battle commences. But it would not have made a difference to your plans for me. You could have told me beforehand. You could have trusted me."

"Severus..."

"As I _said_." He spat the words out between gritted teeth. Each one felt like a small victory. "It would not have made a difference to your plans for me."

  


***

  


"Professor Snape! Wait!" Draco Malfoy called out hoarsely somewhere behind him.

He grimaced. It had been Lucius's turn to glower at him from the dock today, and counsel for the defense had gone in for the easy trick of attempting to discredit the witness. Each question flung at him had been met with a curt answer, in as few words as possible; each reply brought another rustling bout of whispers across the courtroom. The session's weary end brought no respite. The whispers followed him through the corridors.

Being seen running away from the son of the accused was not an option, so he stopped.

"Sir, I..." The blond boy hesitated. He was paler than ever, and there were dark circles under his eyes. "I didn't know."

Right. He should have seen it coming. That Unbreakable Vow business had all come out in Narcissa's testimony.

"You were not meant to know," he snapped, turning away.

"Wait." Draco ran alongside of him. "You and Dum--You and Professor Dumbledore..."

"Professor Dumbledore had his own reasons for his choice." Something caught inside Snape's mind as he spoke. His choice.

"He said it was his mercy..."

"What?"

"He said, it was his mercy that mattered. That night," repeated Draco in a barely audible voice. He swallowed. "And, and you..."

"Don't try to thank me for helping to put your father in Azkaban." Before Draco could say another word, he stalked off, leaving the other standing there in the middle of the hallway.

Into the crowded lift, up into the atrium: he kept his gaze resolutely straight ahead, ignoring the surreptitious glances from every direction. By the rebuilt fountain, he caught a glimpse of the Golden Trio, conferring in furious whispers. They did not even try to conceal their stares as he passed. A sudden idea made him halt in the middle of a step.

"Well, well." The scorn of his tone was approximately back to normal. Good. "If it isn't the saintly Harry Potter and his two apostles. What are you goggling at, I wonder? Does the sight of the great greasy bat offend your anointed eyes?"

The three of them blinked at him.

"Actually, sir," began Potter, "we've been thinking--Hermione's been thinking--about the Elder Wand, and Professor Dumbledore--"

"No need to start calling me 'sir' at this point, Mr Potter," Snape cut in, swooping upon the barest of openings. "After your little return trip from death, after you have demonstrated your superb grasp of the deepest ancient spells--surely I am not fit to be _your_ professor anymore, am I?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"I refer to that small matter of your protection charm upon the entire school, of course. Kept all of Voldemort's spells from binding, I hear? Quite unexpected, I must admit, though of course the nauseating style of it was no surprise, coming from you. Looks like Granger's research did pay off after all--"

"There was no research, _Professor_ Snape." Potter took two step forward, until they stood face to face. The old defiance had been taunted back. "And I didn't know anything about ancient spells, for your information, or if it was a spell at all. I didn't even know the protection was there until afterwards. All I knew was that I cared about--about all those people. And that it was my choice, _just like it had been my mother's--_ "

Snape was already striding away in a whirl of black robes. He kept count of his steps, kept them even and deliberate, and his expression was as carefully blank as it had ever been.

  


***

  


"I did not want it to happen this way, Severus."

The old man sounded sincere, but then again he always did. Patiently and without turning away from the window, Snape waited for the portrait to continue. Outside, clouds gathered in a steel-hued sky. The light of the day was fading.

"I am worried about him."

"Indeed, Dumbledore?" He gave a short derisive laugh. "I must say the boy seems to be doing surprisingly well for the moment, given all his unfortunate tendencies. He has actually managed to escape from Malfoy Manor, and even without losing the sword--"

"You know that's not what I mean, Severus."

"The Dark Lord must be at your tomb by now." With a shrug, Snape changed the subject, still gazing out. "The desecration is unavoidable, I'm afraid."

"A bag of bones. No matter. There is the other issue, though."

"Ah. Which is?" Nonchalantly, he sauntered back to the middle of the room. He knew what was coming, but wanted to at least make the other say it out aloud.

"He's only a boy. A very, very brave one--"

 _A Gryffindor_ , he expected, but to his credit, Dumbledore's portrait refrained. The living and the dead eyed each other for another endless heartbeat. He wasn't going to say it, Snape realised. Typical.

"The Dark Lord will ensure it regardless of Potter's feelings," he commented.

"No." The portrait tensed, or seemed to. "It has to be his own choice. He has to meet death on his own terms. A willing sacrifice."

"He'll go to the altar without a bleat, I am certain. Why, you have been brainwashing him for precisely this since he was eleven years old, haven't you?"

"He is still only a boy," repeated Dumbledore's portrait, not rising to the bait. "You need to tell him, Severus. You need to make sure he sees this, and understands..."

The old man's voice trailed off. No, he wasn't going to say it. Snape pursed his lips. In his shirt pocket, Lily's signature was like the pulse of a living thing. His pathetic little mementos.

"You are right," he said. "He is only a boy."

He was mildly--very mildly--gratified to see the old man flinch. It was only once, though, and obviously useless by now.

"Potter has proven to be stubborn and unwilling to learn, in both potions and occlumency, and you expect me to show him yet a _third_ subject?" asked Snape coldly, striding toward the door. Voldemort would be returning to the castle soon, and his presence would be required. "Yet you refused to tell him yourself while alive--couldn't gather the nerve, was that it, Dumbledore? What happened to that famous Gryffindor courage?"

"Severus--"

"Death hasn't change you, I see," he tossed the parting shot over his shoulder without glancing back. The door slammed behind him.

  


***

  


_The very existence of these powers can hardly be proven,_ suggested the author primly. _If any ever made use of such charms, their names have long been lost in the mist of the centuries..._

The books piled up on the table. From her desk in the corner, Madam Pince glared at him balefully, but did not dare to approach. Muttering under his breath, Snape rifled through another dusty volume. Surely the whole idea was ludicrous, but he must set his mind at rest.

 _The legends appear to speak of the need for a willing sacrifice, dying so that another may live..._

Conjectures and wild rumours. _Nothing more than legends,_ began the next paragraph on the yellowed and torn page. He would have agreed if it were not for what he knew. Lily had died so that her son might live. Her son had died so that the others might live.

Dumbledore would know about these things: 'sacrifice' had always been one of his favourite words. Snape slammed the book shut. He'd never thought to question the old man more closely while he'd been alive.

It was impossible.

Yet here he was.

 _No convincing explanation for the mechanism by which the magic operates have ever been put forth,_ in the words of an obscure nineteenth century historian. Snape noticed his fingers were gripping the quill far too tightly; he forced them to relax. Word by word, Narcissa and Bellatrix's visit to Spinner's End replayed in the back of his mind. Magic often had a nasty way of turning upon technicalities, and technically, technically--

But all that was nonsense. Dumbledore certainly had not given a thought for him when making the demand. Not for the pawn, the tool only to be wielded. And dying from the Vow would have merely made things that much easier.

Yet here he was.

 _And he that cometh with love shall be as a helm,  
He that cometh with remorse shall be as a shield.  
The willing heart that cometh unto Death  
Shall leap last; its strength shall be as the sinews of the earth..._

So he was reduced to this. Ancient verses, love and remorse: two more of Dumbledore's favourite words mocking him from the page. No. There had to be another trick, some unknown factor he had somehow missed...

"Professor Snape."

There he was again, the bloody thorn in his side, standing before the table looking tense and determined.

"Get out, Mr Potter."

"I was thinking--"

"Congratulations. Didn't think you had it in you."

"About the last conversation we had, in the Ministry. About the Elder Wand. You--you knew all along, didn't you?"

Snape froze. So the boy had come to taunt him for even this.

"That is none of your business."

"And Professor Dumbledore. Did he..." insisted Potter. "Did he know Voldemort was going to kill you for the Wand?"

"Professor Dumbledore had his plans, as you, _of all people,_ must surely be aware." His own voice was dangerously soft. "Now get out."

The young man took one backward step, but then remembered himself and stood his ground. He'd faced down the Dark Lord and won, after all.

"It was hard to think at the time, you know. When I just realised I had to die, and that it was the only way." The Lily-green eyes met his unflinchingly. "But I want to tell you that--that there was a moment when I thought, if you could do it, so could I. You showed me, sir."

Laying a hand on the edge of the table, Snape rose and drew himself to his full height.

"Get. _Out!_ "

Turning on his heels, Potter walked out of the library with steady strides. Snape slumped back into his chair. With a helpless growl, he laid his head in his hands.

  


***

  


"Albus Dumbledore!"

The portraits were startled out of their long summer afternoon's stupor as the door to the headmaster's office burst open with a bang.

"Why, Severus, I must say," a reedy voice piped from the wall. "Storming about like a Gryff--"

"What is the meaning of this?" he bellowed, ignoring Phineas. From behind the desk, Dumbledore's portrait smiled down at him with infuriating mildness.

"The meaning, Severus?"

"After all this. After you have used me and pushed me across the board. After you have won." Snape's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You still have to trick me. You still have to betray me one final time--"

"Ah, yes. The little business of the Unbreakable Vow." The blue eyes, made of magical paint, sparkled behind the half-moon spectacles. "There was that, wasn't it?"

"I never ask for this, and you bloody well knew it. I would have--I have--welcomed death, whether it be over a Vow or a blasted Wand, and you bloody well knew it! Do you intend to turn around and tell me that you cared, after all this? Tell me that you sacrificed yourself for me?"

"Severus, please..."

"That was what you said on the Tower." Drawing in a hissing breath, Snape fought his voice back into some semblance of control. "You chose the manner of your death for many reasons, and none of them had to do with me. I would have imagined it to be beyond even you to sully the protection charm, _Lily's_ charm, upon a technicality--"

"I am sorry, Severus," said Dumbledore's portrait. The gentleness of the words startled Snape into silence. "It was true that you would have died from the Vow had you not killed me, as Draco could not fulfill his task. And it was true that I thought but little of this while making my choice, although I admit it did occur to me at one point that it would solve this difficulty, too...Among others."

"You had better uses for me, in other words."

"Well, I do not deny it. But apparently the meaning of sacrifice is too powerful to quibble over, and some magic are too ancient and deep to confine into spells. And apparently strong emotions at the moment of death--the last leap of the heart, so to speak--does make a difference."

"All last year..." began Snape weakly.

"I did not know, all last year." The damned twinkle was in full force now. "Apparently some magic are hidden beyond even our best-laid plans. Not to mention far too subtle for an old Gryffindor. Nevertheless, I am very, very glad that in the end such magic did exist, Severus."

"Well, I should hope so!" Phineas Nigellus cut in querulously. "But you can never reason with these Gryffindor types, can you? I for one am happy to see you alive, my boy."

"So am I," said another voice. Dexter Fortescue. "You're much too young to be stuck here with us old people, eh, Severus?"

"And so am I." Old Everard nodded on the opposite wall. "You did well, Severus. Damned well."

"And I also." Dilys Derwent's eyes shimmered with tears.

"And I, too..."

Severus Snape looked about the room in confusion, at the headmasters and headmistresses, mentally scrambling for a suitably sharp retort. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a single one.

  


***

  


"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Snape glanced up from the piled paperwork on his desk. Another September was just around corner, another fresh batch of idiotic children.

"I believe this belongs to you, Mr Potter."

Pulling a folded sheet from his pocket, he tossed it casually across the desk. Potter looked down doubtfully, then back up, but Snape kept his face expressionless, just as if he were still facing the Enemy. The young man picked up the paper with cautious fingers. His eyes grew wide; he must have felt the piece of photograph folded inside. Snape braced himself, but to his surprise, Potter quickly stuffed the small packet into his pocket.

"Thank you, sir," he muttered.

Snape waved him away, his attention already returning to the work spread out upon his desk. He waited until the door closed, then laid down his quill, rose, and crossed the room. With a touch of his wand and a whispered word, a pair of heavy bookcases slid apart. Reaching into the little niche set in the wall, he drew out a glass jar with a sealed metal lid, and placed it carefully on the workbench. In the soft half-light, his memories--his Lily--glimmered at him, the strands twisting and twinning in their gracefully mesmerizing dance.

He had no idea what to do.

  


***

  


_He was ready. Severus was not, but it was not up to him now. The board was set, the pieces in place, the sacrifice about to be made._

No one else must be my murderer.

 _The young man's mind pulled away from his. Rapidly and holding his mental wards in place, Dumbledore reviewed the Plan one final time, then stared into the other's face, at the anguish and the revulsion and the hatred. Severus stared back, the same way as he'd done once years ago, back when Lily had just been killed._

 _At the beginning of everything. A pale face framed in lank black hair, twisted with anguish and revulsion and hatred. Sick in the soul and wanting to die. He had given the boy protection of a sort, and someone to trust. As close to a son as he would ever have._

 _"Severus, please..."_

 _A fraction of a second before it was shattered by the green light, the old man's heart leapt once, overwhelmingly, painfully, with remorse._


End file.
